the forsythia touches the moon.
Of all the signs of the zodiac
cancer rises over her brow,
wrinkled for thirty-seven years.
Then the constellation fades,
the sun burns the weeds on the lawn
until suddenly they are green.
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From nothingness the poems came to me,
digging deep into my ageing shins.But when I looked into their bright green eyes,they told me that they had no remedyfor madness or approaching death. Their pawsrest upon my lap now, and their chinspress soothingly against my mortal thighs,as if to say that when I don’t know howto cope, disgusted by my life’s deceit,and forgetfulness…
On this breezy October morn, I walk
watching the world wake on the horizon.In the brush I hear the tangerine talkof blackbirds, and, in a crumbling wall’s nooks,the tumult of thrushes halving a bun.And I see the first cart of dawn turningthe corner, see its owner’s toothless grinamid a pile of leaves lit by the sun.And I smell the scent of something…
To love this flesh,
its fruits,ripe or rotting.To be conscious,to understand a toad’s agonyor delight.To finger the pricks of a bush,lick the blood of the worldwith a warm tongue,and comprehend a crow’s hunger.To breathe the spring airfull of laughing and weeping,like a sow thistleor lazy lizard.To endurewithout any sense of time—to wake, sleep, live and dieunder the same sun,…
The cactus pricks the window pane,
You look down at the red borscht stainupon her apron, and you think:never again will she light stoveswith a wood match, or kindle coal,never again will she hoard loavesor spread pâté on a stale roll.Seven weeks after Easter, facenow waxed and powdered for the worms,she waits for God at her own paceas you attempt to…
When we entered the burning city
A child’s hand dangled from a scorched treeand the twisted wreckage of a busmocked the stillness of the sky.Gunner gagged, Ski scratched his head,neither understanding whyhe had to liberate the dead.
He looks up at what pierces cloud,
this moment wind blows over seaand dark’s forgiven in its tracks.He sees the field a boy once ploughed,nostrils piqued by blossoming flax,and thinks the questions no one asks,eyes mirroring eternity.Beyond the headland waves break loud.Once again Boreas smackshis pale and hypothermic lips.Summer suddenly turns to Fall.Behind him now the sunken shipswill never take him home…